Thursday, March 1, 2018


The messages the colors send --
The tired harvest gold and brick,
The avocado trim, the drawers that stick,
The refrigerator hum, the raucous blare
Of heat, the faintest hint of disinfectant
And of smoke, all these and more
That speak of age and overuse
And yet I cannot help but think
How this would seem luxurious
To all those refugees camped out in tents
Or hiding behind trees, afraid and thirsty,
Dying of the cold, the war, starvation...
This scarred table, 
the lamp that doesn't work,
The dirty carpet, scuffed and stained,
The shower that runs cold instead of hot,
All this I see, and yet I'm haunted still
By all the faces that may not see tomorrow.

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